


Playing Dirty

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Oh, the wicked games Cassian and Nesta play.





	Playing Dirty

Before Feyre, there was a game that Cassian used to play with Rhys and Mor. It was a stupid game, played more for show and bravado than actual competition. There were no real rules. All you needed was little bit of luck and everyone would go home a winner.

The game was played like this.

They would venture out into the city, pick some anonymous venue, and wait to see how many patrons bought them drinks. The one who obtained the most drinks was the one who got to gloat about their sexual prowess. At least, until next time.

Since Rhys was now a mated male, there hadn’t been much occasion to play. Though the three of them would still talk about their victories, much to Feyre’s amusement.

“So who’s won the most?” she asked over dinner.

“I’m offended you even have to ask,” said Cassian.

“I’m offended you think it was you,” said Rhys.

“I’m offended by the overly large male egoes at this table,” said Mor.  

“Do you still play?”  

The last question was asked before Cassian could cut in with some crude rebuttal. It was also a question that was asked quietly and without inflection or judgment. But even so, everyone froze as though a chill wind had blown through the open windows.

Because it was Nesta who was asking.

Nesta, who decided to join them for dinner for the first time in months. Nesta, who hadn’t said a word to him since the day she tore Hybern’s head from his shoulders. Nesta who, despite the dark circles beneath her eyes and the hollowness in her cheeks, could still bring Cassian to his knees with nothing but a glance.

It was obscene, he thought, not to mention unfair. How much power this slip of a girl—this female—had over him. How she could wreck his senses and foil his better judgement despite centuries of training and bloodshed.

And he _had_ been wrecked.

He’d been wrecked since the moment he laid eyes on her in father’s house. He’d been wrecked since the day he made her a promise and failed to keep it. He’d been wrecked since he all but bared his soul to her on the battlefield, when they both stood on death’s threshold—together.

Nesta was an opponent that he didn’t know how to fight. He could goad, provoke, and enrage her, yes. But never win over her, never triumph. At least, not in the ways that mattered. There were simply far too many defeats and disappointments as far as their relationship—however thin and tenuous—was concerned.

The shame he felt at his own failure to protect her was as devastating as any war wound. He felt it keenly whenever he passed her bedroom door at night, or caught her scent somewhere in the library. Even now, he was failing her. He hadn’t approached her since that day...was too much of a coward to voice his fears and confess his misgivings. But then, she didn’t approach him either.

And so it went. The both of them locked in some anguished stalemate.

“Do you still play?” Nesta asked again as she filled her plate. “Is it a game you still enjoy?”

Her tone was cool and indifferent, as though she had asked him about the weather. Mor had taken that moment to down the rest of her wine, bracing herself for the conflict that was sure to come. Feyre was desperately trying to mask her anxiousness, but was failing miserably. And Rhys, impossibly, looked a thousand times more smug than he usually did.

“I haven’t been inspired to play much lately, no,” he said at last.

Then he silently sent up a prayer to the Mother and all the old gods that Nesta would drop the matter entirely. Though someone up there must have heard him because she only looked at him once more, and thoughtfully, before returning to her food.

Everyone seemed to deflate as a wave of relief passed through the room. Soon, the conversation moved to other matters. Feyre and Rhys were planning to visit the Summer Court to see how Amren was faring with Varian. Elain and Azriel were nearly finished with their mission on the Continent. And Mor just received an invitation from Viviane to attend the Winter ball.

Nesta, however, remained absolutely silent. Watchful, observant, but eerily silent. It filled Cassian with a strange sense of dread and foreboding, as though he were about to be ambushed.

His warrior instincts did not fail him, however. Because as soon as everyone stood to leave, she had struck him with that fiery glare of hers and said, “I would like to play.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.

“What?” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as idiotic as he thought he did.  

“Your game,” she said, folding away her napkin in that prim way that highborn ladies do. “Tell me when, tell me where, and we will see who the victor is.”

“Nesta…,” Feyre began cautiously.

But the eldest Archeron ignored her, her attention solely fixed on him. How long had he been craving it? Her notice? Her regard? And now that he had it, he didn’t know what to do. She had made him lose his footing so easily that it set off a spark, an ire that he hadn’t felt in a long while.

Was he mad to think that his anger felt _good_? That he would rather have that than the estrangement that yawned miserably between them?

“I didn’t think you’d be up for this kind of game, sweetheart,” he said, grinning when he saw her tighten her jaw. “You might be out of your depth.”

Feyre winced. But Nesta only smiled.

It was a slow smile, unyielding and dangerous. He had worn it many times himself in the face of an adversary that he couldn’t wait to pummel into the dirt. What was worse was how her smile _thrilled_ him in ways he couldn’t explain. Because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt that strange and familiar _pull_ between them. A burning fire coming alive where there were only embers and ashes before.

“We’ll play tonight,” said Nesta. “Then we’ll see which one of us is _truly_ out of their depth, Commander.”

Then she stood up from her chair and left them, her footsteps retreating down the hall. Only when he heard the door slam behind her did Cassian release the breath he was holding.

_Shit, what the hell had he done?_

Rhys reached over him to uncork another bottle of wine and said, “You are so royally fucked, brother.”

* * *

Cassian _was_ royally fucked. But he would be damned if he would ever admit it out loud.

“You’re damned already, so there’s no use in wallowing,” said Rhys.  

Cassian growled. “Stay out of my head.”

But Rhys only shrugged. “I would, but your thoughts are as loud as the voices in this tavern.”

His violet eyes scanned the dim room as more patrons flooded in. Cassian had only been to this tavern once before, but thought it was as good a battleground as any for he and Nesta to play their game. He had left a message for her through Feyre about an hour ago, and was expecting Nesta to waltz through the door any second.

But as the minutes continued to trickle by, doubt began to settle in. This was as much a folly for him as it was for her...

“I won’t pretend I understand whatever it is between you two,” said Rhys, polishing off his ale. “But you need tread carefully. For her sake, as well as yours.”

Cassian was already on his fourth drink—his fourth _free_ drink courtesy of a group of pretty maidens sitting at the table adjacent to them. He considered Rhys’ words, but wasn’t sure how to answer.

Everything about his High Lady’s sister always made him feel uncertain, and it was embarrassing that a grown male his age could feel so...insecure. Whatever cockiness he felt that night was rapidly evaporating each moment Nesta failed to appear.

 _What the hell had gotten into her? What the hell had gotten into_ him?

A loud chorus of rough laughter erupted from the farthest end of the tavern. A large circle of fae had lined up around some mysterious stranger at the counter. A mysterious stranger who seemed to be holding their attention with a story.

“What’s all the fuss about?” asked Cassian, as he accepted his _fifth_ drink of the evening. At this rate, he would be shitfaced before he even got to savor his victory.

Rhys glanced over at the commotion, then almost sputtered before jabbing Cassian’s ribs.

“Turn your head to the left,” he whispered. “But don’t be obvious about it.”

Cassian glared at him, but did as he said.

All intentions of being subtle, however, had flown out the window as soon he spotted her. Nesta was here— _had been here_ long before either Rhys and Cassian arrived if the sparkling line of drinks that was spread before her was any indication.

“I count one, two, three...ten drinks,” said Rhys. “Quite the lead for someone who’s supposedly an amateur. And look, she’s wearing one of Feyre’s dresses.”

Cassian was in mood to endure his brother’s teasing. No, he was too busy trying to reassemble himself after taking in the female who had set fire to his world from the moment they met. She had seared him that evening at dinner; she was scorching him even now.

Tonight, her armor was a sleek red dress made from the deepest crimson. It clung to her slender body like water, rippling with every movement. It looked chaste, even demure, from the front and the back. But along the sides were wide, open slitted panels that left her creamy skin bare, including the smattering of freckles that he—insanely—found himself itching to trace...with his tongue or fingers, he didn’t know. All he knew was that somewhere in the pits of hell, some dark god was laughing at him.

It was no wonder he didn’t recognize her: her long, golden-brown hair was let loose from its usual crown of braids, falling down her back in untamable tresses that made his mouth water against his will. For a fleeting and crazed moment, he wanted her to tie it back up and hide it away behind the rigid facade she wore so well.

He wanted her to do this because he felt like _he_ was the only one who should see her this way. Wild and free, like some kind of goddess who wandered among mortals out of curiosity and perhaps sport.

But Nesta wasn’t his. He didn’t own her and she wouldn’t suffer being owned. Nesta’s spirit could never be bridled—and he liked it that way. Still, his frenzied instincts to _claim_ and _possess_ surged through him like a storm. So much so that the glass in his hand had cracked in several places, mere seconds away from shattering into a pile of broken shards.

Her eyes found him then, gleaming with an almost predatory amusement. And then, Cauldron boil him, she raised a glass in his direction. Her other hand gesturing at him in some kind of mock salute.

Rhys’ answering smirk did nothing to quell the chaos that was threatening to break him.

_How could she get under his skin so easily?_

“I wish you good fortune, Cas.” Rhys patted his shoulder in consolation. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

Had it only been an hour? Perhaps it had been two. Either way, it felt as though time had stood still for the General-Commander as he continued to watch Nesta accept drink after drink after drink, from male and female patrons alike.

He hadn’t even paid attention to the drinks that were delivered to his table, had actually stopped paying attention from the moment Nesta raised her glass in his direction.

He could have never guessed how easily she could captivate an audience. Almost everyone wanted to speak with her, spend a few more moments with her—and why the hell not? She was more than just a beautiful piece of scenery. She was bold, intelligent, and every inch the diplomatic emissary that Rhys had asked her to be.

This was the side of Nesta that had calculated the number of ships needed to evacuate the mortal realm. This was the side of Nesta that had confronted all seven High Lords and openly challenged their position in the war to come.

He had known this side of Nesta was always there; had tried to draw it out himself in his own stupid and fumbling way. That she chose to reveal it now, and to strangers no less, gave him no cause for celebration. She was doing this to mock him; they were still playing a game.

A game that he was losing. If he were honest, he had lost from the very beginning. Another bitter defeat to add to his ever-growing list of failures.

“All right, I’ve had enough,” said Rhys, throwing a smattering of gold coins on the table. “This is no longer fun for me.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Home,” he said. “To my mate. To my bed. If I’m lucky, both of things will be in the same place.”

“You’re just going to leave me here?”

Rhys sighed, then slapped him on the back. “At some point, brother, you’re going to have to stop being an idiot and go after what you want.”

Then he winnowed in a flash of dark smoke and left Cassian alone to brood.

* * *

It was maybe after Nesta’s twentieth drink that Cassian’s mood had shifted. Obviously, she hadn’t drunk every favor that came her way. In fact, she had only taken sips from the ones she found most interesting. If he wasn’t so busy seething, he might have admired her strategy. It allowed her to be sober enough to make small talk with the next patron, and therefore secure her another drink; another point.

As things stood, Cassian only ordered _himself_ another drink and wondered if the best course of action was to cut his losses and leave.

But some obstinate part of him—the part that earned him the title of “the most stubborn ass” among the Inner Circle—didn’t want to. It rooted him to the spot, made him fume a mere few feet away from the object of all his agony.  

He should go. There was no reason for him to stay. No reason for him to keep score. Nesta had won.

Then an angry cry cut through his thoughts as cleanly as a spear.

It was Nesta, he realized. Some pompous noble had the gall to take hold of her arm as though she were his property. She pushed him against the counter, sending a line of crystal glasses crashing onto the floor. Liquid and debris scattering everywhere.

The noble snarled, the spectators jeered, and all Cassian could see was red.

She would probably kill him for this—but fuck it.There were worse ways to die than defending the honor of others.

With his own half-empty drink in hand, he elbowed his way past the eager crowd—past that prick of a noble who was currently on the receiving end of Nesta’s tirade. Her eyes blazed and blazed as she verbally castrated the shocked and outraged male, and Cassian decided then and there that there was no female in the world that could be more terrifying and beautiful than Nesta.

_At some point, brother, you’re going to have to stop being an idiot and go after what you want._

So he slammed down his own drink on the counter, effectively disrupting the entire affair as Nesta whirled around to meet him. Her rage was something to behold, stoking something within him that seemed to smolder in answer. But before she could brand him with what was sure to be a spectacular tongue-lashing, he leaned down and kissed her.

Hard—with tongue and teeth.

It was one of the most crazed things he had ever done. And even though he was fusing his lips to hers, all but declaring to everyone around them that she was spoken for...even then, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

Nesta didn’t seem to either. Her blue-grey eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in frustration, then darkened into…something else. She had melted against him, letting the curves of her body mold into his hardness, her sinfully red mouth parting to allow his tongue to trace that delicate seam. It ignited him, making him shed whatever reservations had burdened him all night. He wanted fuck her with his mouth; he wanted to devour her.

But not with so many eyes on them.

He threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her down a long corridor, weaving through the crush of bodies until they reached some hidden alcove off to the side. There was nothing in that room save for a mop and broom, and the space itself was so small that they could only stand chest to chest, sweaty and bewildered and panting.

He reached out to lock the door behind them, a dim fae light above casting a web of shadows over them both.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he answered.  

The silence stretched between them, a silence laden with a thousand and one things. There was simply too much to sift through and Cassian wondered if he would ever be able to give voice to all of it. But he could start small. He could at least start with this...

“Nesta, what we have…,” he stopped, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear to give himself courage. “It was never supposed to be a game with you.”

Her brow furrowed as she considered him. “I know. I don’t want to play games with you anymore.”

She reached up so she could press her forehead to his, a gesture that was far more intimate than the kiss they shared only moments ago.

“Cassian, I…” She swallowed, her emotions making her skin flush in that telltale way that said she was reaching her limit. It was like glimpsing the eye of the storm, and at the center was the wild beating of Nesta’s heart. “I’ve been trying so hard to stop thinking of you. But I can’t... _I can’t stop_.”

He stilled, breath caught.

“You occupy every thought, every dream,” she went on. “You consume me from the inside out, and I don’t—I don’t want to let you go. Even though it would be better for you, I can’t do it. I can’t leave you.”

“Nesta…” He tipped up her chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Nesta, I can’t leave you either. I’m only sorry that I didn’t say so sooner.”

Her lip trembled as she fought the urge to cry; he knew how much she hated to do so, especially in front of him. Instead, he kissed her again. Softly, gently, sweetly. The way he always wanted to.

He wanted to take his time.

“You’re such an idiot,” she said finally, once they broke apart.

He smiled against her neck, against that delicious slope where he had fantasized about leaving his mark more than once. Oh, the things he would do…the things he would teach her. He breathed in her scent, letting the essence of her fill his lungs.

Then he paused when he caught it: the unmistakable scent of her arousal.

“I wore this dress because I knew it would drive you mad,” she said, her fingers sliding against the muscles of his back until they reached the base of his wings. He had tucked them in, but as her touch grazed closer and closer to one of the most sensitive parts of his body, it was all he could do to not flare them in response.

“Wicked creature,” he growled. And this time, he _did_ nip at her throat. Then soothed over his playful bites with wet, open-mouthed kisses. “If dresses could kill, then I would have died the moment I saw you from across the tavern.”

“Mmm,” was all she said, when he discovered a particularly sensitive spot below her ear. He worried at it, teasing her with the scrape of his teeth until she began to mewl under his ministrations. “ _Cassian_ …”

He groaned. “I love it when you say my name.”  

“Narcissist,” she said, though she had said it with affection.

He walked her backward until she was pressed against the wall. But as there was hardly any room, it took all but two strides to lift her gently against the hard surface and hitch her gorgeous legs around his hips.  

But as the half-sheer panels of her criminally alluring dress rustled around them, Cassian made a discovery so shocking that it nearly made his heart stop.

“Are you…? Nesta. Are you not wearing anything underneath?”

She wasn’t shy when she nodded yes, which made him harden instantly.  

He sank against her. “Gods, you really _are_ going to kill me one day.”

“I like it,” she murmured into his ear. “I like feeling you like this. With almost nothing in between us.”

She might as well have set off an inferno within him.

“What else do you like sweetheart?” he asked, as he slid a scarred and calloused hand up her bare thigh.

“I...I like it when you touch me there.”

“Oh? And what if I go higher?”

A beat. “Then I wouldn’t say no.”

His eyes shuttered at her admission and it took nearly all his willpower to not collapse onto his knees. Never in his entire _life_ had felt this crazed rush of possession; this need to be the only male in her life to cherish and worship her in every way she deserved.

He went higher, caressing every delicious curve until he reached his destination.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Is this all for me?”

She was soaked; her desire dripping from that sweet, wet place between her legs. Had she been this way the whole evening?

“It’s all for you,” she mewled and he could sworn that he had died right there on the spot.

Instead, he circled around that wonderfully swollen jewel between her legs. He cupped and teased until she was writhing impatiently beneath him, gasping and begging him for more.

He drove his hardness into her. His thrusts deliberate, controlled. “Feel that, sweetheart? That’s all for _you_.”  

“Cassian, I want...I need...”

“Yes,” he crooned. “Yes, I know.”  

He slide a single finger into her. Her entrance slick and wanting.

“Another,” she whimpered. “Please, another.”

It was a miracle that he didn’t come at the word “please.” It was such an innocent word, made filthy by the way she said it—breathlessly and with abandon. She was completely unraveled, coming loose.

And it was all because of him.

He gave her another finger and relished the lovely moans she made. He wanted her like this: debauched and frenzied and so utterly _his_.

“What do you want, Nesta? Tell me.”

“I want...I want to taste you,” she said. “I want you to teach me.”

He faltered, nostrils flaring like a bull in heat. “Shit. What else?”

“I...Cassian. I’m close.”

He pumped harder, curving his fingers within in her until she arched those beautiful breasts in face.  

“Who do you belong to, Nesta?” He asked, needing her to say it.  

“You...you ass.”

He chuckled, expecting nothing less.

“And who do I belong to, Nesta?”

“Me,” she nearly sobbed. He could feel her all around him, willing her to _get there_ , willing her to reach that radiant peak so that he could watch her fall apart in ecstasy. “You belong...gods...you belong to me. Only me.”

It was enough.

She shattered in his arms, coming around his fingers in a way that made him want to relive this moment forever—and he could now, they had the time.

And he wouldn’t waste another moment of it.

 


End file.
